I don’t trust the wind; she’s loved me like this before


 

I took a lover once; he sewed me to his spine, 

Neither round his girth, nor over his shoulder

Could I see the world he traveled far from me.

His sacred numbers blessed our holy hands,

One cradling his mane, the other locking mine.

Back then…

Lovers and landlords favored rent over poetry,

I, never the sort to drift far, the lair’s lure strong,

Offering dusty shadows beamed in dirty panes,

True love writ on a paw or whisker, soft-shuffled,

Whence the divan bearing swans sunk infinitely.
 

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